


It Gets Better

by the_diggler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Pining, Porn Watching, Sexuality Issues, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diggler/pseuds/the_diggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Trust me on this - It gets better,” Sam Winchester tells you. And then you lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Gets Better

  
“You know I’m not gay, right?”  
  
Or so you tell him, anyway.  
  
But when he huffs a small smile at that, you can’t help but notice how his whole face transforms with it, and how words like ‘handsome’ and ‘strong’ and ‘ _want_ ’ suddenly flit through your head. And there’s no denying how your stomach dances and your chest leaps at those thoughts, and how your fingers suddenly twitch with the desire to _touch_.  
  
But you clamp it down. And you smile back. And you don’t tell him anything different.  
  
It’s a reflex. Born from a mother who constantly demands perfection and excellence and… grandchildren. But the fact is, you were never able to do much more than hold your girlfriend’s hand.  
  
It gets harder when you’re on the boat. Day in, day out, translating the word of freakin’ God – you begin to lose track of the passage of time. Everything becomes a kind of dream-like blur, so far detached from any kind of reality or normalcy that you knew before, you begin to wonder if you’ve left your sanity behind as well.  
  
And then they show up again, and you’re so happy to see them - see _anyone_ \- that you work even harder when they leave. To make them happy. To see that smile. So they come back again, _soon_. You become obsessed. It’s like a weird kind of Stockholm syndrome or something.  
  
It gets harder still, when the Angels fall.  
  
You can’t help but notice how happy his brother and the Angel are together, or the lonely envy in his eyes, when they’re too wrapped up in each other to notice. And now that you see it, you can’t help but want to reach out and ease that ache. Tell him, ‘I’m alone too!’ and freakin' do something about it.  
  
You start thinking about it all the time. Every time you see that look in his eyes, and more. And it gets worse and worse, until eventually, you find yourself spread open on your bed at night, stretching yourself three fingers wide as you watch large muscular men pounding smooth twink boys on your laptop, wondering what it feels like and whimpering his name.  
  
Then, finally, you get so drunk one night, that you end up crawling into his bed, pulling at his pants and trying to get a mouthful of his sleeping wood.  
  
He tells you to stop, of course. That you’re drunk, and that you’re just a kid.  
  
And you tell him how you’re old enough to translate the word of freakin’ _God_. Old enough to survive on your own for six freakin’ months without _any_ help at all, especially not _his_. Old enough to want the real thing while you’re finger-fucking yourself at night, thinking about him. And technically fucking _legal_ to want it, at that.  
  
And then you feel the way his grip tightens around you, just for a moment. And you hear the suppressed groan in his voice when he lets go, and says you need to leave, _please_. You see his resolve crumbling, right before your very eyes.  
  
But only for a moment.  
  
Then he’s back to saying No, and telling you he can’t give you what you want.  
  
But you plead with him, shamelessly, as he pushes you to towards the door, scrabbling at his big, strong arms and stealing kisses from his bare skin where you can.  
  
“I could make you happy!” you tell him, breathless and earnest, and you see him crumble again, just a little, before he finally looks you in the eyes, long and searching.  
  
He tells you to sober up. And that if you’re serious, to come back tomorrow.  
  
So you slink off and sulk, because you’re so fucking horny, and lonely, and you want him so bad. But you sober up. And you come back. And too much fucked up shit has happened to care about how you behave anymore, so you crawl into his lap, just like you did the night before, and say,  
  
“Can I please have your cock now?”  
  
And he gives it to you.  
  
And gives it to you.  
  
Until you can’t walk for days.  
  
And then he kisses it better until you’re twisting around and sucking on him, begging for him to give you more, until he does, again and _again_. And you don’t care that you can barely walk most of the time anymore, because all you want is to live in his bed, _forever_ , and _how_ could you have _ever_ pretended anything otherwise?  
  
You are _totally_ gay, for Sam Winchester. And he _makes_ it better, in every way.

  
_~ fin_

  
[[tumblr crosspost](http://the-diggler.tumblr.com/post/61016796761/it-gets-better-sevin-nc-17)]


End file.
